Featured Tracks:

Focusing on trauma has always been a central plank in P.O.S’s artistic platform. He comes by the obsession honestly. That same instinct is a hallmark of the punk tradition, long cited as an inspiration by the Minneapolis rapper. Whether you prefer to apply sub-genre labels like “conscious” or “backpack” to the art of rhyming, it’s obvious that engagement with uncomfortable concepts has been key for a rich lineage of idiosyncratic MCs (both popular and not). P.O.S has called Aesop Rockhis favorite rapper; the latter’s mix of emotional vulnerability and technical confidence is a clear influence.

When P.O.S approaches a mood of raw celebration, the route often runs through a hardcore group chant, premised on some opposition to the zeitgeist. This aesthetic has a way of pushing uncomplicated exuberance so deep into the background that it disappears from view. And that demotion of one of hip-hop’s most expressive, universal modes creates a tension with rap’s mainstream, no matter the season.

On his last record, 2012’s We Don’t Even Live Here, P.O.S took shots at a wide array of then-current trends in rap. The disses were on-brand, but the synth-heavy instrumentation sounded less distinct than the punk-rap style that made 2009’s Never Better such an energizing listen. Frivolity can be pretty easy to call out. Creating a suitably attractive alternative tends to be more difficult.

With Chill, dummy, P.O.S avoids retreating into the program of Never Better, while also one-upping his prior outing. His own production—and that of his collaborators—pushes more decisively into some grooves that you might actually hear in a club. There’s even a hint of sensuality, thanks to the slinky, bass-heavy motif that drives “Faded.” It’s new-enough ground for P.O.S that you can hear a bit of a giggle in the mix, right after the first appearance of “I want your body on me.” Though for the balance of the track, the seduction is played for real—Justin Vernon’s guest vocals are some of his best, too.

The lyricism remains captivating throughout. Rapping from the post-op vantage of a harrowing, ultimately successful kidney transplant, P.O.S is still all about his consciousness. But his latest internal critiques prove far more interesting than his evergreen complaints about meme culture. The sometimes prideful concept of “staying in your lane” gets a healthy kick during the chorus of “Lanes,” as P.O.S wonders whether staying true to his style may have stunted his growth. (“I been doin my own thing so long/Or is it/I been in my own way so long.”) This line of thinking leads to one of the most experimental tracks P.O.S has ever created: the eight-minute-plus album finale “sleepdrone/superposition.” He covers a lot of ground here, with grim, sustained synth tones as well as a Kathleen Hanna feature: “You’re supposed to be happy to be alive,” she sings. “You’re supposed to be lucky to be alive.”

Other topics include the killings of Mike Brown and Eric Garner, a general sense of futility, and the concept of “superposition” in quantum physics. That last idea is obviously fairly complicated. But at root, it has to do with multiple, simultaneous potentials for particles of matter: a discovery with clear poetic implications for an artist focused on states of development. The track itself can become almost anything, at any time—courtesy of pivots in rhythm and vocal cadence. In the end, it’s as rousing as P.O.S’s best work, even though it sounds little like anything he’s given us before.

Not everything on the album works on this high level. A couple of the guest-heavy tracks (like “Bully”) feel more muddled in their intent. But the overall tenor of the album has a satisfying, freed-up quality. As P.O.S raps on “Pieces/Ruins”: “Same dude new guts/Literal and figurative lost a couple fucks.” And while he’s openly experimenting with his ideal resting heart-rate, P.O.S is still usefully motivated by anger—a reality you hear clearly on the industrial-tinged opening track “Born a Snake.” It’s healthy to try out new patterns and engage in self-critique, but not everything needs changing.